Upsidedown
by Jean Anderson
Summary: Buffy began to see her mistakes, and she was starting to accept the truths she had been trying to ignore. Of course, when Buffy got this way, Spike’s usually the cause. As a result, she was a tad frustrated. One shot. BS


Title: Upside-down

Author: Jean Anderson

Rating: R for language

Summary: Buffy began to see her mistakes, and she was starting to accept the truths she had been trying to ignore. As a result, she was a tad frustrated. A few vampires who thought they could take on _the _frustrated Slayer popped out. Guess what happened?

Disclaimer: Story belongs to Joss Whedon and David Greenwalt.

Author's note: Just bleedin' read the fic an' have a good time. Oh yeah, luvs, review. Those who don't are damn poofters…or maybe not.

UPSIDE-DOWN

THE SKY HADN'T any sign of a star, but the luminescence of the moon was shedding enough light for the Slayer to find her way through the cemetery. She'd been patrolling for the past hour, and yet she still didn't feel the satisfaction that usually came after dusting several vampires. Something was lacking, and she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

She looked heavenward and sighed, restless. The first star finally appeared, but making a wish didn't appeal to her. It'd just make her feel foolish. Besides, if wishes made on the first star one first saw at night would come true, she'd long been out of this Slayer business—she didn't think any Slayer had been happy going about their businesses staking vampires, if anything, maybe they'd even wished their deaths had come sooner.

Speaking of which…she hated to admit that maybe, just maybe, Spike had been right. Her soul was set in definite defiance, but everything seemed to be coming back to what he had said: Every Slayer has a death wish. Not that she wanted to die again, but she'd had a taste of heaven…and she knew, deep in her gut, she wanted more, and how else could she have that? The only way was to die again. It scared her that she wasn't exactly pushing the concept of dying away from her mind. Of course, she didn't hate her friends from pulling her out of heaven—maybe a little at first—and the gods knew how much she appreciated seeing Dawn again. But she was getting tired.

Too damn tired.

She felt like a child looking for the comfort of home.

Her slayer senses suddenly perked up. Vampire. Close by. She turned around and had a visual. She inwardly shrugged, okay, so maybe she missed the feeling that it wasn't only one blood-sucking fiend but five…well, she had been quite preoccupied.

WHEN THE VAMPIRES saw the Slayer, they stopped cold in their tracks. One of them—Buffy assumed he was the acting leader—studied the pack and decided that they were enough to take on the Slayer.

BUFFY WAITED PATIENTLY for them to approach. She wasn't in a hurry to finish this off; she wanted to feel every kick she would throw, every punch she would land, and every plunge the stake would take. Then maybe she would get satisfied.

But the fight was too easy, and Buffy got pretty disappointed as she staked the fourth vampire without breaking a sweat. They were all effortless fights, and the last one wouldn't be any different—she knew. If she prolonged it, she might get too bored and just go home without bothering to stake the last vampire. She didn't want that. With the last creature pinned against the wall of a crypt, Buffy's hand around his throat, the stake was driven through his—_its_—chest. The vampire turned to dust, and Buffy mirthlessly smiled.

The wind carried the dust, but it did not come, and Buffy frowned. The frown turned into an angry grimace.

_Goddammit, Buffy! What is happening to you?_

She was mad at herself, but she didn't know why. She was getting frustrated. She threw the stake at the crypt, so hard it shattered. Now she wanted to thrash something, anything to vent her growing frustration on. Finding none, she settled on leaning against the crypt's wall, and eventually, she slid down to a sitting position. She hugged her knees to her chest and leant her head back. She heavily took in air and sighed.

She hated this.

"Pathetic, luv."

The familiar voice jolted her from her reverie. She turned her gaze to where the voice came from and saw the vampire discarding the fag he'd been smoking.

"What do you want now, Spike?" she said, exasperated.

He shrugged. "Happens to be my beloved crypt you're leaning on."

She heaved herself up and turned around. It was his crypt…or rather, the crypt he claimed. With a sigh, Buffy started to walk away as he approached her.

"Sometimes, Slayer, I wonder why you're still up and kickin', what with all this moping around." His voice was noncommittal.

She stopped. "That's what you think."

"That's what I see."

That made her. "Can you stop prancing on your toes, pretending you're very perceptive and know everything, 'cause you certainly don't know a damn thing!" she suddenly burst aloud, her face dangerous.

Howbeit, Spike was unfazed. "I know you, Buffy."

He did know her. He knew what she wanted, what she didn't. But she was so bent on proving him wrong.

She rolled her eyes. "That's rich. You know me. Why's that, Spike? Because you fuckin' _love_ me, that's why now you suddenly know me all too well? Stop dreaming. Soulless creatures can't love, and you're an evil soulless thing!"

The words came out in a rush, a sudden release of anger she didn't know she was holding. She knew her words had no truth in them. He had proven her wrong time and again. Buffy, on some unconscious level, had accepted that, though she couldn't understand how he could love her when he was supposed to hate her. She killed his kind, dusted them without second thoughts. She hurt him, not just emotionally, but physically. She'd beat him when she couldn't find anything else to vent her anger on. She'd told him a thousand times she didn't like him, let alone love him. Told him he'd never have a chance, that there would never be an "us." Told him she'd never look at him anything more than a monster. And yet he loved her. And she hated how she couldn't understand why. It made her angry. Prior to their encounter tonight, she was mad at herself because of something she couldn't explain; now she was taking it out on him, again, like it was his fault all along.

HER WORDS SLASHED through his very existence, or rather non-existence. He didn't have a soul; therefore, he shouldn't feel this way, but he did.

Hurt fleetingly crossed his face, then he was back to looking casually indifferent, like her words hadn't affected him a single bit, when it hurt him more than he'd care to admit.

He walked towards the entrance of his crypt, and he opened the door, but didn't enter just yet. He turned around and faced her.

"Guess you're right, pet, I've no soul. Maybe I am…or rather, I was dreaming. Dreaming that I _was_ in love with you."

It suddenly hurt. It stung. He said he _was_ in love with her. What about now? Why did hearing it in the past tense suddenly give her a pain in her chest?

He faintly smirked. "Or maybe, I was _hallucinating. _Yeah, that's it, hallucinating. How could I be in love with someone who treats me the way you do?"

Buffy inwardly flinched, not because that sounded mean, but because it was true. Everything that Spike had done when she died was to show that he really cared, but she didn't acknowledge it. She'd even beat him up, just to release tension. Sometimes he would volunteer to be her punching bag if it would make her feel better. Sometimes he would take evasive actions, blocking, dodging, and parrying her attacks, but never really hurt her.

Blocking, evading, parrying.…

_Dance._

It hit her. Because it wasn't a dance—her train of thought ventured away from their conversation. She couldn't believe what she had just thought. She wasn't satisfied with her earlier fight because it wasn't a dance. It was just ordinary fighting. No measures, no bounce, nothing, just blows coming from abrupt angles.

"Funny, I misunderstood—" Spike was saying, but his voice was drowned by Buffy's thoughts.

With Spike, everything seemed measured, so graceful, so balanced. Everything had a reaction. She knew it was fatal when an enemy knew your tactics, but with him, it was like she didn't care at all. She didn't care because she was enjoying it. Besides, she knew he wouldn't kill her even if that was what he kept on saying every time they fought.

But lately, they hadn't been…dancing. And she was missing it.

A lot.

She snapped back to reality.

_Oh my God, did I just think that?_

Buffy imperceptibly shook her head to rid it of such thoughts.

"So, guess am sorry. For botherin' you." Spike continued.

For Buffy, his voice sounded oddly calm. No emotion. Very noncommittal. She hated it. She didn't know why, but she did. She wanted his voice to crack, anything to give him away. But there was none. And for the very first time since he had admitted he loved her, she couldn't read him.

He clenched his jaw. He was hurting, but she didn't need to know that. Besides, she wouldn't care anyway. He was the enemy from the very beginning, what difference did having a chip and not being staked because of it, make? Clearly nothing…at least to her.

"Reckon you'd better go home now, Slayer. Your presence isn't exactly welcome here," he mordantly said. Then he went inside and slammed the door shut.

Buffy winced, and, for a fleeting moment, was angered by what he did. What right did he have to dismiss her like that? She was the Slayer. She got to dismiss demons and not the other way around.

Though there was a big "but."

_But, _was he still a demon? Technically, yes. But she was trying to not consider technicality now. Besides, after everything he'd done and shown, was it right for her to still treat him as if he were no more than a demon, as if he were…_dirt_? No. And an ordinary person would be extremely grateful for everything he had done, but why couldn't she? And didn't she want to live an ordinary life? So why couldn't she look at things through any ordinary fellow's eyes? Why couldn't she see that he was more than what she gave him credit for? Perhaps because she just didn't want to see. She was being blinded by the fact that he didn't have a soul. She was able to love Angelus because he had a soul, despite his being a vampire. Why couldn't she accept Spike even if he did show her more than Angel ever had?

It all came down to the soul business.

He cried when she died. He stayed when she died. He looked after Dawn when she died, and even before that. He went against his vampire instincts because of her. Killed his kind to help her. Did fucking everything for her. She knew all of these, and yet she chose to be a bitch.

As she was standing outside his crypt, realisation hit her suddenly. So sudden her chest tightened. She breathed in deeply. Did she really think that? Did she really want to make that decision? Maybe. Maybe this way, she would finally feel alive…even if her decision went against everything she stood for.

_Wait, this had happened before._

But this was different, she decided, this would be better.

Yes, better, but she was still indecisive. She would do it, but she didn't know if she wanted to do it now.

SPIKE SAT ON HIS RECLINER, one leg draped over the chair's arm, watching _Passions, _the television's lights playing on his face. He had cooled down a bit, but he couldn't concentrate on what he was watching. How could she still see him that way? After all those times he'd been there for her, how could she not acknowledge them and see him in a new light? He had feelings, too, and she knew sodding well how to hurt him.

When the show ended, he reached for the remote control and pressed the OFF button. He grabbed his bottle of bourbon and drank from it.

_Damn that Slayer! Who the bleedin' hell does she think she is? Some kind of a fuckin' goddess?_

IT HAD BEGUN TO RAIN, and Buffy was getting soaked. She was still standing outside Spike's crypt. She had decided to take action now, but she was still mustering the courage to do it. She was the Slayer, but she was still a girl, and Spike was still of the opposite sex.

Buffy took in much needed air.

_Now or never._

Positioning her hand in front of the door, she held her breath.

SPIKE RAN A LAZY HAND through his hair. He got up and was planning to go to the lower level of the crypt, when he heard a knock. Then another. He wondered who'd be polite enough to knock on his door. Certainly not her. She'd just barge in like she usually did when she needed something.

It couldn't be… 

His vampire senses couldn't be wrong. It was she. Buffy. On the other side of the door. Knocking.

He opened it, and he almost took back what he had said when he saw her standing in front of him, soaking wet. He almost ushered her in, but stopped himself.

"What d'ya want, now? Another round of Spike bashing? Am not in the mood, pet. Go home. You've already done enough damage. Oh wait, you don't care, 'cause 'I'm an evil soulless thing,'" he said, trying to push down the urge to invite her in out of the rain. "Tell you what, Slayer, am tired of playing this game: me always running after you. I don't get any bloody thing in return, anyway. Just the usual bashing. What benefit 's'there in that? Besides, 's'unfair that I don't get any credit for what I do."

Buffy looked at him, listening. His voice was becoming softer, losing the usual sarcasm.

"I've always been there for you. Hell, I even got bleedin' tortured by that damned hell god 'cause of you and the little bit. I treated you naturally when you came back to the living, unlike those bloody, naffin' Scoobies who treated you as though you don't belong—an' you know what I meant by that. And what do I get?"

That hit her with no warning. It was so true. Her friends treated her like she was some fragile thing when she came back, then she'd had the feeling that they brought her back because without her, no one would fight the things the Hellmouth would throw at them. But Spike, on the other hand, made her feel like everything was back to normal. He didn't expect anything from her. He let her recover by being his usual self-absorbed way. That way, she would have a taste of what it was before she died. He didn't force her to be able to adjust immediately…but her friends did, didn't they?

Spike was pouring his heart out, and she was listening.

She was listening.

"You know, Buffy, a guy could only hold so much." He sighed. "I love you so much, it makes me weak. I'd die for you, you know that? But I guess, that's just not enough." He looked at her, and Buffy would've melted because of the sincerity in his eyes, had she been another girl.

"Spike—"

Then he laughed mirthlessly. "'S'funny why am even bleedin' tellin' you this, pet. 'S'not like you give a good goddamn, anyway. And—"

He wasn't able to finish his sentence, for Buffy suddenly threw herself at him, hugging him. The sudden action surprised him and left him speechless. He was unable to move.

"Stop, Spike, just…stop."

Spike, finally getting over the initial shock, thought about pushing her away, but thought better and placed his arms around her. He held her securely against him, afraid that she might walk out on him again, but she made no indication of moving.

He pulled her inside with him and closed the door, ceasing the rain and the cold air from entering. They just stood there, motionlessly, like they were about to dance…but a different one, a dance not fatal to any of them.

A little above a whisper, she asked, "Why?"

Spike, at first, didn't understand, but he soon got it. "Because I feel it's right."

It was so simple, just five words. He felt it was right, and maybe it was, and maybe Buffy felt the same way, too…finally.

"Because you feel it's right," she repeated.

"You make me weak, Buffy, and I hate you for that, and at the same time…that's the same reason why I…" he faltered, not sure if he really wanted to say it anymore.

Buffy waited, but the words never came out of Spike's mouth. His embrace loosened. She looked up at him, but he was avoiding her eyes.

"Why what, Spike?"

He brought his gaze back at her, but he didn't answer. Buffy opened her mouth to ask again, but before the words could come out, his lips were on hers, hesitant—she could've sworn the guy who was kissing her wasn't Spike.

Her eyes closed.

The kiss was so soft, gentle, almost relaxing—it was like a dream. But it wasn't. It was real. It was really happening, and she was enjoying it. Every moment of it.

It didn't take too long before the lip-lock grew more in certitude…more certain. One moment it was so gentle, the next it was almost demanding. And it didn't only come from Spike. They were kissing as if their lives depended on it.

He never denied that he lusted for her, not only in the sensual sense but also in the sense that he desperately wanted her to love him the way he loved her; to need him the way he needed her; to crave him the way he craved her.

This time, Buffy didn't seem to be denying it, though the word "love" still wasn't fully accepted by her system, just the craving, which, she convinced herself, was the cause of her being in need of him.

Buffy's hand started wondering on their own accord, sliding on his sides to his chest. She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, eager to get him out of his garments.

SPIKE WAS IN HEAVEN Everything felt good. Everything that was happening was what he wanted, and it took all his control to not ravish her then and there.

He gently pushed her away.

Buffy looked at him in total confusion. She knew he wanted her, and for the first time, she showed him that she wanted him, too, all of him, not that just to satisfy her physical craving, but her whole being, but he had pushed her away. And she was wondering why.

"What?" she managed feebly.

He ran a hand through his locks, sharply breathing in unneeded air in the process. His skin was tingly, and he had to control himself to get out what he wanted to ask. "I want to know: what are we doing? What are _you_ doing?"

She had the grace to look puzzled. "Kissing?"

Stupid.

He moved a few steps backwards, eyeing her. "Kissing," he repeated, disappointed at her answer. A few more steps in the direction he took and he was sitting on his recliner, looking suddenly narcoleptic. "What is this, Buffy? A game?" He didn't sound angry or sad, just tired. Even his eyes didn't have the usual fire and mischief they usually showed.

"No, no, it—"

"Well, if it's not a game, it certainly isn't something serious."

_What was that? Of course it's serious!_ "You know—" she stopped. She couldn't blame him, and she knew that. She hadn't exactly taken anything Spike did seriously. Even her actions were almost all for show—to show that she was all right, that there wasn't anything wrong. "You know," she tried again but faltered once more, "uh, can we just skip this part, Spike? Can we? Can we just continue what we were doing a while ago?"

For a moment she thought he would acquiesce. For a moment she actually thought he would gladly take up her offer, but then he glared at her, sharply stood up, and stalked out of his crypt and into the rain.

Buffy stared, quite taken aback by his actions. She was indignant, though she subconsciously knew she didn't have the right to be. She drew in a sharp breath out of annoyance. With extreme determination to make him understand he could never and should never do that to her, she took off at the same direction he did, movements lithe and swift.

She had been searching the places he usually went to (which mostly included the demon bar, the Bronze, her backyard, and, funnily enough, the entrance of the church) for quite sometime now, but he somehow managed to escape her senses, and to think how enhanced her senses were. Feeling a slight sign of tiredness, she slowed her pace. If she would still see Spike before the night ended, she would see him.

The rain had stopped, leaving puddles of water in its wake. Buffy walked slowly, not caring that her boots were muddy and her hair was in disarray. Her thoughts had even made her oblivious to the fact that her new leather jacket was soiled with ashes plastered on it by the rain (she had come across a few vampires). A while back, she wanted to tell him everything, to confess, and when she had her chance, she blew it royally, fucked it up real bad. She had been so sure about what she felt right before she entered his crypt, but when she was inside already, every bit of courage she drew up suddenly seeped away. She just couldn't admit it. It was easier to lie than to come clean.

Always.

SPIKE FISHED A PACK OF CIGARETTES FROM HIS DUSTER'S POCKET. After getting one and hurriedly lighting it, he shoved the rest back from where he got them. Pulling deep on his fag, he fought hard to not let his demon face take over his human features. He was disappointed beyond measure, and his demon had been wanting to come out, out of frustration. It had been agitated by their first encounter this night, slightly calmed down by the display in the crypt, and now, it was, again, agitated. He was already having a hard time suppressing it, and all he wanted to do then was let it loose, not only on other demons but to humans, too—bloody thing was, the chip proved to be so inconvenient. And if he had been calmer that second, he would realize it wasn't only the chip that prevented him from playing his kind's real game.

He blew the smoke from puckered lips, silver puffs swirling in the night, bitter whiffs no one could smell but him. He was now back at the cemetery he had fled an hour or two ago, after prowling the other cemeteries to find other demons he could vent his anger on. But later on, he had found out that that didn't do anything good for he only came across fledglings. If anything, it had only fuelled his anger more because he realized how much the world lacked competent vampires. For an odd detached moment, he thought why he never wondered that slayers only died by the hands of Masters: it was because no other vampire could off them; no other vampire had the skill to kill them.

He threw the half-finished fag and wearily opened his crypt's door. Maybe it was his demon's tumult that made him unaware of a dangerous presence—dangerous to his kind—but he was surprised, nonetheless, by the sight set in front of him: The Slayer, sitting on the sarcophagus, knees drawn to her chest, and her hands locked around them, rocking slightly back and forth.

When he closed the door, she lifted her gaze to him, and at that moment, he almost lost his resolve again, like how he lost it earlier that night. She looked lost, more so than an hour ago. Her muddied clothes only made her look more like a lost child.

SHE FELT HIS PRESENCE EVEN BEFORE HE ENTERED, but she had only mustered enough courage to look at him mere seconds after he closed the door. She hurriedly stood up and had the grace to look ashamed when she saw how she had muddied his sarcophagus.

"Sorry about that." She looked at him, expecting him to make light of the situation, for she herself was struggling to ease the tension in the room that had settled since he entered. But she was sorely let down when all he did was stare at her with no more than calmness in his eyes—she wasn't even sure if that was forced or real.

She watched him dispose off his duster on his recliner. Watched him light a few candles. Watched him fill a glass with liquor. Watched him lean against the wall, sip his drink, and go back to looking at her with no intention of initiating a conversation.

She heavily sighed but made no other move. "Spike, I'm—" _This is it, no turning back now. Just say what I want to say and hope for the best._ "—I'm sorry." She managed to look at him while saying this and all she got was an amused look accompanied by a raise of his scarred eyebrow. Then she couldn't look him in eye anymore.

SPIKE ADMITTED TO HIMSELF THAT HE WAS ASTOUNDED by her apology, but he didn't show any sign of being so, just the innocent amused look and the raised eyebrow, which were both noncommittal. He calmly took another sip of the strong liquor, his gaze never wavering. He wouldn't, this time, make the first move when she had fallen silent after her apology; he would let her do everything now. There had been times when he couldn't stop himself from touching her whenever he could, but this time, he held his ground.

As calmly as he could, he brought his glass to his lips to take another swig, only to find out that he had emptied it already. He turned his back on her, walked to where his bottle of liquor was, and refilled his glass.

BUFFY HEARD SPIKE'S FOOTSTEPS and was suddenly hurt that he didn't say anything after her apology and that he was walking away. Was he that upset that he had to walk away from her? Was he that upset that he didn't wish for her presence anymore? Tears threatened to spring up her eyes, but she managed to stop them before they could start rolling down her cheeks.

She looked up, hurt beyond words, only to find him refilling his glass. She suppressed an inevitable sigh of relief and the urge to laugh at her conclusion. She studied him quietly, hearing the faint gush of liquid as he poured himself another glass. The fitted black shirt he wore allowed her to see the play of his muscles as he moved.

Her mind started to wander on what she had rehearsed herself to say a while ago, and was startled by his smooth voice that cut through her reverie.

"Sorry 'bout what, Slayer?"

The question didn't hold any emotion, and she winced—almost imperceptibly—at the title he used.

"About," she again hesitated, "everything." She saw the surprise in his eyes, even if his face was void of any expression. "I may have treated you as if you're beneath me—" A sudden anger ran fleetingly across his eyes, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared, and before she could speak another word, his hitched involuntary breathing that accompanied that doubtful anger triggered the memory the words she spoke brought. But she had already said the words, and they were too fast for her to catch, so she only hoped that whatever she would say next would placate the demon that had shown the gold deep in his blue eyes. "—But deep down, I know…I know that wasn't true because…because you've shown me more than I could be thankful for." She took in much needed air.

"I may have treated you as if you're beneath me—" His demon suddenly reacted to her words, and he knew his eyes had suddenly blazed gold for a second even if the Slayer didn't react to it. But he was thankful that the demon didn't take over, for this wasn't the time nor the place for his demon to give in to its anger.

That was a lost memory, but evil doesn't forget anything, and that memory was one of the most hurtful things the Slayer had told him. Even if the demon had recognized the anger of the Slayer back then, it also knew that it couldn't be treated that way.

Her next words, however, placated the demon: "—But deep down, I know…I know that wasn't true because…because you've shown me more than I could be thankful for."

He had longed for her to say that. To admit that they stood on equal footing. That she could accept him for who he was—wasn't that what her confession implied? It almost overwhelmed him that he had to fake a sip to avoid literally choking with emotion.

When he was sure he was past that part, he levelled his gaze at her, though he looked at her through guarded eyes. He saw the sincerity in her expression, and this time, he couldn't not touch her.

In a few, measured strides, he was only mere inches away from her, though he still wasn't in physical contact yet. He almost drowned at the sea of green his Slayer's eyes had. With a reluctant hand, which was real strange since he was never reluctant, he pushed back the stubborn ringlet of hair, which kept falling from her ponytail, behind her ear.

He gave her the softest of kisses, and Buffy had to wonder if she had just imagined it.

"Thank you, Slayer, but you have to go home now."

She frowned. Wasn't he even considering what her actions implied? Was he turning her down? Why did it hurt so much?

Tears threatened to spill form her eyes—again—but she held them back. She was not going to lose to her fear again.

Taking a deep breath and straightening her back, she said, "I am not going home, Spike. Not until you get the message of what I had just said into that thick skull of yours." She drew strength from every word, which was aflame with all the conviction she could muster. "I cannot go home, Spike, because as much as I want to, I can't. Not unless you let me in…again." She could feel herself blushing; nevertheless, she continued, "Don't close off on me. I know I've hurt you, but I want to heal the wounds I've inflicted." She was pleading, but it was all right. If pleading was the only way she could get through the walls his subconscious had surreptitiously built around his broken heart, she would do it. "I'm sorry I was so blind. I'm sorry I was too stubborn to admit what I feel for you because you have no soul. But I know and admit now that soul or no soul, you're still the Spike I'm…" she faltered slightly, "I'm falling in love with." There, she had said it, even if the last part was barely above whisper. All she had to do now was to wait for the rejection she could feel coming.

To her real surprise, it didn't come. Even if he never rejected her before, she was sure he would now, but he didn't.

She hazarded to look up and was rewarded by another soft, fleeting kiss on the mouth. She must have looked funnily surprised for him to get that amused look in his eyes.

"Feel better?"

Still surrounded by his welcome presence, she nodded, a bit stupidly.

"Good. I can't say I don't want you to stay, but you have got to go home now. Bit might worry." He let go of her. "And, for the record, I wasn't closing off again a while back; I was just asking you to go home to the Platelet, but your confession, as sappy as this may sound, meant a lot."

Buffy was struck speechless by the sudden change in the atmosphere. By the time she reached his door, she was still mulling over the previous events. She barely got to say what she wanted to reply to him when he had asked her to go home the second time, but she managed to find the words and say them out loud, "I'm going home to Revello Drive, Spike, but this," she gestured to herself and him, "is pretty much home."

The last thing she saw before she closed his door was the ghost of a smile of someone who had managed to turn her world upside-down and capture her heart in the process.

—AND HERE ENDETH THE STORY—

End notes:

There you go! With much flourish, I announce the end of this fiction! No more…unless I can think of another, but that's soddingnext to impossible. I had a hard time finishing this as I was treading the line of disinterest, so it might take forever for me to come up with a sequel.

Thanks to Ade and Mione for pre-reading this story and for approving it.

Anyway, thanks lots for reading this, mates. And since you're already going through this bit, it means you really flipped over the pages of this one-shot, or for those who read this on-screen, scrolled down to this end bit…unless you bleedin' dashed to this part. Feh. Only dolts do that, right? Right? Kidding, ducks.

My mind's all blank now, so I gotta say my cheerios, toodle-oos, and ta-tas!


End file.
